


A Ticket in his Fist

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff with a lot of plot, M for the possible smut in future chapters, M/M, Protective!Mickey, There's a lot of Mickey not-so-secretly being head over heals for Ian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had his head tucked in the in the dip between Mickey’s ribs and he seemed to think it was an excellent pillow, if the shit-eating grin pushing at his freckles even in sleep was anything to go by. It made Mickey smile too, and he lifted the arm that wasn’t curled over Ian’s torso to trace the red fuzz that framed his hairline. Mickey skimmed his knuckles across the redhead’s temple, stopping when the “up” tattooed on his ring figure met the violent purple splotch spread between the top of Ian’s cheekbone and the corner of his eye."</p><p>(No one expected it to me Mickey that them out of the South Side. Full Summary inside:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knock Out

**Author's Note:**

> No one expected it to be Mickey that got the ticket out of the South Side. Maybe Ian and the optimism he persisted to carry in his shit-eating grin, but everyone else from his own sister to the stray dog that limped and loitered in the alley outside his house would have bet all of their drug money that Mickey was going nowhere. Mickey would have bet his too.  
> And if any of them had toyed with the thought of Mickey Fucking Milkovitch getting the hell out on his own merit, they couldn't have stretched their imaginations far enough to guess that it would happen with the very thing that earned him the vote of "Least Likely to Succede" in the first place: his fists.
> 
> OR
> 
> Where Mickey is recruited to become a bare-knuckle boxer and it's 90% gallavich. Takes place about a year in the future from where the show is now, in an AU where asaposed to coming home early in 3x06, Terry got shot and killed on his drug run allowing Mickey and Ian's relationship to progress to my liking.
> 
>  
> 
> Hello folks, I decided to finally contribute to the stream of Ian/Mickey fanfiction because YAY we finally broke 300, I've wasted a few weeks worth reading all of the existing stories for this ship, even the shitty ones, and well I was only being an active member of the fandom in my head. This is the first of contributions, perhaps more if the fishies bite to my blatant begging for reviews and actually like the taste of Sophia-style fishfood. Also, if you're bothering to read this author's note, kindly ignore that horrible metaphor, and enjoy!  
> -Sophia

      Mickey let his eyelids slip shut, pale plumb colored lids stretching in an arch across their sockets. They stayed like that for a few seconds before peeling back into his head with a snap, exposing blue irises. Mickey wanted one last look at Ian before he fell asleep.

      He had his head tucked in the in the dip between Mickey’s ribs and he seemed to think it was an excellent pillow, if the shit-eating grin pushing at his freckles even in sleep was anything to go by. It made Mickey smile too, and he lifted the arm that wasn’t curled over Ian’s torso to trace the red fuzz that framed his hairline. Mickey skimmed his knuckles across the redhead’s temple, stopping when the “up” tattooed on his ring figure met the violent purple splotch spread between the top of Ian’s cheekbone and the corner of his eye. His own lips tugged downwards and his eyebrows pulled to together in an expression stuck somewhere between a frown and a scowl. He’d gotten his vengeance on Frank for daring to hurt what was his, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel anger pop and paw in his gut at the sight of Ian’s injuries.

     Ian’s lashes twitched when Mickey softly thumbed the damaged skin in a way that even he would have to admit could only be described with words he attempted to use sparingly such as “protective” “loving” and “really fucking whipped.”

     He chewed out a small sigh in an attempt to compensate for the fact that thinking about his being a proper fairy who had decided Ian Gallagher was a lot more fun to orbit than the sun _didn’t_ pluck at his instinct to run to the next continent. The thought even aroused the essence of a feeling he’d come to recognize as happiness. Fuck.

     He Ignored this uncomfortable pondering in favor of pressing a kiss to the swirls of red that crowned Ian’s head and flicking his eyes shut again. He latched his mind to the thrum of Ian’s pulse and the sway of Ian’s breath against his skin and slowly slid into sleep.

     Too slowly, unfortunately, to miss a series of knocks coming from the door down stairs.

      He groaned, toying with the idea staying cud- not cuddled, definitely _not_ cuddled with Ian, and hoping the knocker gave up. Before he could decide, there was another round of knocks. They were louder this time, three curt taps that sounded oddly like the slap of a tiger’s paw on the cage floor as it impatiently waits to shred the carcass it knows the zookeeper will eventually toss it.  Or, as Mickey had liked to imagine when he was a kid and his Mom was briefly sober enough to take him to the zoo, it was waiting in hopes to eat the zookeeper.

     Three more knocks caused Ian to stir in his sleep, brow crinkling as he nuzzled his head further into Mickey's chest like an absurd colored rabbit and half muttered a string of syllables which sounded suspiciously like “Mickey” followed by “Banana”.

     Mickey growled over the sound of his heart cartwheeling as he watched Ian. With Lip and Mandy at collage, and Jimmy/Steve fucked off, Ian was picking up more rug-rat duty than was good for him. Whoever this asshole at the door was, Mickey was _not_ going to let them wake up his sleep deprived Gallagher. 

     Mickey untangled the knot of arms and legs he and Ian had created and slipped out of bed, tensing for a moment as Ian grabbed at the sheets for his own now absent warmth and rolled onto his stomach. When he stilled again Mickey breathed and began to fish through the heaps of clothing on the floor.

      Retrieving a pair of red boxers that didn’t smell overwhelmingly of piss, he nudged them through his feet and over his knees, the cotton catching on his inner thighs where the sweet stick of cum hadn’t quite dried. He smirked. It seemed fitting that he was 90% sure they were Ian’s anyway.

     He snatched a gun from the dresser and tucked into the waistband, relaxing at the familiarity of the cold black metal poking his back. Ever since Terry kicked the bucket, he’d gotten more than one unfriendly visitor who claimed his dead father owed them money. As impulsive as Mickey was, he valued preparation when it came potentially facing angry coke addicts.

       He padded quietly, or as quietly as one can pad when one is both in a hurry and a Milkovich, out of the room, down the carpeted stairs adorned with their many blood and vomit stains, and opened the door.

….       

       It took several blinks for the flood of late afternoon light to balance in his eyes enough for the stranger to become comprehensible. Bright clouds bobbed in the corners of his vision even as the contours of a man’s face revealed themselves.

            “Da’ fuck you want,” Mickey said in his usual polite fashion as he eyeballed the stranger.

      The man at the door was sharp. This is not to say that he was particularly handsome or well dressed, though it could be easily argued that both those qualities applied. _Sharp_ simply could be used to describe every fundamental aspect of his character from the ragged V of his jaw line and the spear like point of his broad nose to the crisp creases of is suit colar to the angled crop of his salt and pepper hair. Even as the man’s lips pierced upward, he smiled a Jackal’s smile.

      Mickey squelched the desire to squirm under the stranger’s stare. As his eyes darted like daggers over the hard curves of Mickey’s muscles, he had the distinct impression that he was being sized up rather than checked out. The stranger seem to approve and the Jackal’s smile peaked, exposing a row of harshly white teeth with K-9s that were, unsurprisingly, shark like.

      “Are you the young man that beat the living daylights out of that old drunk on the corner of Madison this morning?”

      He was British. _Of course_ he was British, with a prodding voice that grinded the gears of Mickey’s skull and twirled double meanings into sentences. What he’d said was a question, but it settled like a statement.

     “Who’s askin?” Mickey quipped, sculpting his features to a sneer, “You with my parole officer? Cus’ if you are, you can’t prove a damn thin-“

“I’m not involved in any form of law enforcement, no. My name’s Simon Rapax and I believe I have a business proposition for you.”

 


	2. Simon Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys thanks to anyone who reviewed or gave kudos for the 1st chapter, I got a couple of reviews that made me smile my own shit-eating grin. It was admittedly less adorable than Ian's but it made my dog wag his tail so I consider that a succes. Of course, that was more likely the squealing noises I made then the grinning but still. Anyways, enjoy!

Simon stuck out a hand.

It was both callused and manicured with a tattoo of a snake twining down his palm, under his polished silver watch and disappearing beneath the folded cuff of his sleeve. Mickey stared down at the hand then up at the sharp green eyes.

 He didn’t do handshakes but…but something about Simon’s knife like smile and probing voice gave him an instinctual sense of both trust and fear.

 _This is fucking uncomfortable_ he thought a he scraped the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip. He didn’t like trust, only had it with Ian and Mandy and that had taken _years_ for him to begrudgingly accept. And given that he made it his business to not be afraid of anything, he certainly didn’t like the fear. But who was he to deny business?

“Mickey Milkovitch at you’re fucking service” he said with his best cheap smile as he punched his own hand forward to clasp Simon’s, giving their joint limbs one firm tug downwards. The “F-U-C-K” inked on his fist crossed directly over the open jaws of the snake.

Simon’s smile slithered further open, his bottom teeth catching rough flecks of sunlight. Mickey pushed his doubt down his throat and cocked his neck towards the inside of his house. He turned and walked into the living room, hoping Simon had enough brain cells to follow him.

As Mickey shuffled to the fridge and dug out a beer he heard the door click shut and the tick of fancy-ass leather shoes trailing him to the kitchen. He considered offering Simon a beer, but deemed it too polite.

He took a gulp of his drink, twisting the amber liquid on his tongue to drag the bittersweet flavor into his taste buds. He swallowed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth before opening it again to speak.

“So ya’ need me to fuck someone up for you or something?”

“Not exactly. More along the lines of ‘something’,” Simon said eyes trained to the bunch of Mickey’s biceps as he brought the bottle to his lips. He made no attempt whatsoever to disguise his gaze slicing over Mickey’s body as if he were dissecting the very core of his character.

Mickey was suddenly _very_ aware he was half naked.

Not one to admit modesty, he scratched his shoulder in a way he hoped past as nonchalant.

He had to use all his will power to strangle the muscles in his eyes still as they made an attempt to bulge out of his sockets when his hand connected with a trail of hickeys. Three swatches of pink, raised skin in the shape of Ian’s mouth made a road along his right shoulder that led to a particularly vibrant bite mark. The two crescent shaped lines where Ian’s teeth had been were scarlet against the white dip of the flesh between Mickey’s neck and collarbone. He gave his best efforts not to blush when he retrieved his hand from his neck to find it dotted with smudges of red. It was still bleeding.

_Thanks a lot Gallagher._

He classily swiped his bloody figures on the hem of his boxers and grunted to diffuse his own in embarrassment.

“Tell me Mr. Milkovitch,” said Simon, a slight smirk to the swing of his accent, “Do you always fight like that or did that man personally offended you?”

Simon was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his crisp suit looking out of place in the general chaos of the house.  Mickey took another swig of his beer and looked at him, flickering between being honest and telling him to fuck off.

“Both,” he said, settling for the middle ground.

That earned him another Jackal’s smile.

“And what did he do to be worthy of such a thorough beating?”

“None of your fucking-“ Mickey started, then smothered the sentence with a sigh.

Simon raised an arrow-shaped eyebrow and plucked one of the apples Ian had bought last week (“You need to eat Mick, and no, Snickers and Jell-O don’t count.) from the basket by the sink and rubbing it on the hem of his jacket. His shark-tooth K9’s pierced the skin of the fruit with a crunch Mickey found similar to the sound of bones snapping. Everything about the man made the ex-con feel compelled to tell the truth.

“He’s my Bo-“ At this mistake the whites of Mickeys eyes blew wide and his tongue was slammed still into his gums. It took half a second for him to gain control of his brain over the shock. He’d been about to call Ian his boyfriend. Outside of his head. _In public_. He have would like to blame Simon’s distractingly sharp presence for the slip, but he knew the fault belonged to a certain someone who was younger, hotter and a more ginger.

“He’s my friend’s Dad.”

Simon’s lips made a stab upwards and Mickey had a horrible suspicion he’d connected the dots from the hickeys and the bite mark to the “Bo-” and knew what Mickey had almost said.

“And why, may I ask, does that warrant him a remarkable number of broken ribs?”

_To many question’s._

“Just cus’ my Dad liked to use me as a fucking punching doesn’t mean I’m goanna sit on my ass when Ian’s beats the shit out of him.” 

The suited man nodded and peeled meat of the apple into his mouth, digesting the information as he twirled the skin on his molars. His irises, Mickey noted, where the exact same green as the Granny Smith he was eating. Simon swallowed, jagged Adams apple jumping in his throat.

“You have an exceptional fighting style Mr. Milkovitch. I admire your aggression and your ability to channel it into a clinically accurate means of attack. You’re combination of precision and wild force is somewhat of a talent. I noticed a defined difference in the way you disarmed your opponent and the way intentionally inflicted pain upon them. That and your excellent form lead me to believe you’ve had boxing training before. Am I correct?” Simon said in a tone that would suggest he’s simply asked about the weather as apposed to given an in depth analyses of Mickey. And compliments. Multiple compliments. Ian was the only one who ever _complimented_ Mickey, and he wasn’t sure what to make up Simon’s cold kindness.

“If you count watching my Dad fuck up crack addicts and me and my siblings for eighteen years as training then I guess I’m fucking expert.”

To Mickey’s relief Simon didn’t make any sympathetic clucking noises, only cut his iron cheekbones with a grin.

“Ah natural talent, all the better then. I’m a scout for the National Liege of Bare Knuckle Boxers, otherwise known as the NLBB. I am also manager a coach for training center on the north side. I handle a team of hand picked elite bear-knuckle fighters called “The Chicago Predators”.  I would like to reciute you to join the team, granted of course that you can prove that fight I witnessed was more than a fluke. Be at my gym at nine am tomorrow, bring you “friend” Ian if you’d like. If you can hold your own against one of my top fighters, you’ve got yourself a deal and a ride to the first round of regionals in three months. Here’s my business card, the gym’s address is on it.”

He pinched a sliver card from his breast pocket with his middle and index figures and held it out to Mickey.

Mickey’s mind stuttered as he attempted to process Simon’s speech.  Him, a professional boxer. Him a professional _anything_ seemed far-fetched but a boxer? He’d always assumed if he was going to be paid to inflict pain it would be a job busting Knee-caps for a drug lord. He _was_ good beating people up. Even as the youngest Milkovich male, Mickey had made his brothers learn from an early age if they messed with him or anything he cared about they’d have their nuts twisted and their noses broken before they could not say sorry. It was probably the only thing he was good at too, if you didn’t count taking it up the ass, being rude, or being slightly obsessed with Ian. From his experience most people didn’t. But this, this was so sudden. Simon’s words clanged in his brain with an effect as overwhelming as the drumming of a toddler with access to pots and pans. (Rule #6 of watching Liam, Mickey had learned the hard way, was _never_ leave him near anything metal unless you want a headache) ‘

He looked down at the card as if it was planning to explode as he pulled it from Simon’s fingers. White letters where printed on it in neat lines, stacked evenly in the shape of an hourglass.

Rapax & Stultus Training Center

661 Ashway Av.   312-666-175

Simon Rapax

Scout, Manager, Owner

& Coach of The Chicago Predators

            Mickey looked back up to find Simon watching his face, marking the play of his expressions as he reacted to the offer.

 “And what makes you think I want to join your fucking band of merry men?”

The straight slice of his thin lips dashed downwards and his green eyes became acid in scowl as he said, “A person such as yourself with a rap sheet and a temper isn’t bond to get many opportunities. I’m giving you a chance to get out of the South Side and make something of your life. You’d be fool not to act on it, and Mr. Milkovich, I take you to an abundance of unpleasant things, but fool is not among them.”

            Mickey said nothing, hating the accuracy of the statement. He spun the card in his hands, studying its firm edges and hard corners and the way an arched popped in the middle when he squeezed the ends.

            Silence creaked over the kitchen, coating the tiles, the dust and the two men staring at Mickey’s hands.

…

Naturally, because Ian had this terrible habit of complicating things, that was the moment he decided to make his presence known.

            “Mickey?” he called from the upstairs hallway, voice low and crooking with grains of sleep. Mickey’s heart twitched at the sound, and his head jerked instinctively to the knock of Ian’s footsteps leaking through the rotted wood of the ceiling. They padded closer, boards of the stairs moaning as he hoped down them

            “Mick what are you doing down here? Come back to bed I’m fucking col-“ The sentence started muffled as Ian finished the last of the stairs, rolling louder as he walked the stretch of hallway bellow them and becoming clear as rounded the corner into the living room where the volume promptly nosed dived when he noticed Simon.

            His eyes bloomed away from his head; the jungle colored flecks that circled his pupils like sunrays intensifying with the contrast to the growing white his irises now swam in. A blush swept over his pale checks and traveled in pink rain across his freckles and bruises, puddling at his jaw.

            “Oh,” said Ian, lips wobbling open and closed with half formed syllables as he grasped for words, “Oh I uhhh….”

            The blush was a rose colored hurricane now as whirled down Ian’s Adam’s apple and started branch out along his chest.

            Mickey’s heart was a storm too, unable to resist a rabid pulse at the sight of Ian, and Ian being stupidly endearing. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more thankful  the redhead got cold easily(except for maybe the first time he got used as a Teddy bear/personal heater when Ian passed out after sex, and Mickey had gotten a better night’s sleep trapped in sticky arms and legs than he had thought was physically possible to have before). Because if Ian hadn’t been determined to protect his dick from the potential goose bumps the somewhat-broken air conditioner of the Milkovitch house could provoke, then he wouldn’t have put on boxers or caped him self with Mickey’s quilt and the awkwardness of this now furiously awkward moment would have increased _tenfold_.

            Ian tightens and loosens his hand’s coil on the blanket nervously. It stems in an upside-down “V” from two corners of the cloth caught his fist, exposing a triangle of flesh on his stomach. He gains control of his blush before it’s pink hue can make a garden with the purple and green patches layered thickly on his abs which had received the blunt of Frank’s beating.

            Mickey can see him take in Simon’s appearance, can see the wheels of his mind swirling somewhere beneath the red fuzz of his hair as he forms an impression, likely the same one as Mickey. He looks at Mickey with a guilty grin slipping over the shocked expression.

            _Sorry I outed us to a complete stranger._

Mickey shrugs, bear in the bottle still in his hand bobbing in time with his shoulders. Without ever trying, they’ve sort of become masters of silent conversations over the past three years.

            _Whatever man, pretty sure he already figured it out anyways._

            Ian nods, tempted to unleash a wide smile that’s aching in the seams of his mouth. He knows Mickey would have flipped a shit if this had happened a year ago, hell maybe even if it happened a couple months ago. But then again, It had only been a year and a half since Terry died. Mickey had slowly but surely revealed his already partially admitted affectionate qualities after that and started working towards “Boyfriend of the Year” awards, not that he’d ever admit that’s what they were.

            “So uh,” Ian tries again, “Hi. I didn’t relies their was someone else- um sorry but who are you?” He looked at Simon no doubt trying to puzzle what this clearly rich and inherently intimidating business man is doing in the South Side, in Mickey’s* kitchen no less.

            Simon’s smile crackled as he watched Ian, giving him the same manic analyses with his sharp gaze as he did Mickey.

            “You must be Ian.”

            Ian’s eyebrows crashed together and the skin of his forehead creased like a strip of sand holding the impression of waves during low tide. He looked at Mickey.

            _You talked about me?_

            Mickey shrugged again, not breaking his eye contact with Ian as he leaned back and slid his beer on to the counter behind him.

            _It’s a long story._

            He did his best to glare when the creases on Ian’s forehead melted back into his skull he released his trademark shit-eating grin.

            _Aw Mick, you talked about me._

            Mickey rolled his eyes glare losing most of it’s already meek fire the longer he stayed focused on Ian.

_Shut the fuck up Gallagher._

            This did not, unsurprisingly, deter Ian’s smile in the slightest.

            They were interrupted by the raw ripple sound of Simon clearing his throat, amusement prickling about his face at their exchange. He shed his weight from the counter, standing upright and flicking the apple into the trash as he stepped forward.

            “I’m Simon Rapax, here on the premise of convincing Mr. Milkovitch to be trained and sponsored as a boxer at my gym.”

            He shot his hand forward as he made his way to Ian, the snake tattoo twisting with the muscles on his forearm, giving it the impression is was slithering.

            Ian’s eyes burst wide again and he talked to Mickey as he moved to meet the approaching Simon, hand emerging from the blanket.

            “That’s Wow- I always knew how much you like to punch people would come in-“

The quilt whipped from his shoulders when it snagged on the splintered wood of the table pushed against the wall, stopping him. He bent instinctively to pick it up, knobs of his spine stacking downwards.

Freckled arms began curving to the floor but flew harsh and fast to his stomach as his body clenched and a hiss straggled its way from his lips.

“Fuck,” he gasped slivers of muscles on his face jumping tight as he battled the pain.

Mickey was at his side before he even realized he’d made to move his legs.

“Easy, Firecrotch,” He said quietly as he clasped an arm around Ian’s waist, steadying him as he rolled up from the hunched position. 

“I’m fine Mick,” Ian grunted out, but promptly contradicted him himself by sagging into Mickeys hold, letting the familiar touch stich away the ache.  

“Like fuck you are,” Mickey said with a scoff.

He kept one arm hooked across Ian’s back as he turned to face him and softly molded his free hand around the purple splattering on Ian’s cheekbone. They lost themselves for a moment as the sky of Mickey’s eyes and the earth of Ian’s met. Mickey watched blocks of yellow light reflected from the window shade dance on the wet surface of the deep green circles. An emotion he’s rather not name unfurled into Ian’s stare. Mickey saw the same emotion join the reflections, knowing somewhere in the roots of his gut that it was reflected from his own face.

“I don’t care how many times you tell me she’s busy with the baby, we’re getting Veronica to check out your ribs tonight even if I have to roofie you and drag your drugged up ginger ass all the way there.”

            Ian almost smiled again, lashes kissing the puff of skin that rimmed the bottom of his eye sockets as he leaned into the warmth of Mickey’s hand on his check.

            “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a nasty bruise, I’m not dying. I’ve already got you being overprotective, I don’t need Vi or Fi or anyone else to freak out too.”

            “Your damn right I’m being over protective. You’re not a fucking pussy Gallagher, and that face you just made? You sure as hell wouldn’t act like that over a bruise. You can be a stubborn asshole who won’t get help if you want. I stand by my roofie threat.”

            “I won’t drink anything you give me.”

            “You wish. I’ll just put it on my tongue and kiss you, you fall for that every fucking time your sick.”

            “Fuck you Mick.”

            “Later.”

            “Not if you make me see Vi.”

            Before Mickey could come up with a retort, Simon, whom they had both completely forgot was with them, let out a chuckle that chimed like barbed wire, effectively silencing their banter.

            “If I may,” he said stepping closer to where stood tangled together by the table, “I’ve seen many a fighting injury in my day, and would be happy to examine you ribs. Mr. Milkovich is right, judging from the bruising and your reaction it’s very likely that you have a fracture.”

            Ian teased his bottom lip in his front teeth, studying Simon again and warming quickly to the idea of fixing his ribs without the involvement of his family.

            “Alright.”

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R folks this story is my brain child and your thoughts on it make me happier than every example of happy people used in the new GEICO adds <3

**Author's Note:**

> Well there's chapter one :) I intended to combine it with chapter two, most of which is already written in my head, but I was itching (no seriously, you try sitting in one place writing for too long and tell me you don't want to rub aloe on your ass) to post something so I split them. So r&r, eat my fish bait and all that, plus a lot of pleases. Also this is unbetad, so if you notice any of my inevitable gramatical errors I'd be thrilled if you pointed them out to me...ignore the dangling modifiers.......sssshhhh they're not real I promise  
> -Sophia


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